These Days
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: My name is Yvgenny Milkovich. My parents and I have spent the last seventeen years moving around for my stepfather's sake. Because he continually worsens, my dad moved us back to Chicago. Where we're happy. Everything is fine. We're happy. Things couldn't be better. We never keep secrets. Until now. Everything is fine. Series AU/Future FIC. Sort of Original characters.
1. Prologue

**A/N :**

The main focus of Part ONE, which follows this prologue, is going to be the Milkovich and Gallagher families, mingling in tidbits of the Ball family (which will be part two).

This takes place 17 years after the current events in Shameless. You'll find flash backs in future parts. They'll be italicized. Explanations ensue. Heart break. Etc etc. Varying points of view from Yvgenny, Jemma, Mickey, Fiona, and maybe some others.

Enjoy!

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Prologue

His face is familiar. His laughter wakes up memories of hot coco and saturday morning cartoons. Each time he brushes against my shoulder, I'm nine years old again, getting spun around until I'm nauseated and dizzy. He reminds me of an old friend, long lost to travel and family falling outs. I can't take my eyes off of his mouth, twisted up and sarcastic. Lost in my thoughts, drifted back into better days and longful wishes, he's almost moving in slow motion before me. But my train of focus is broken by the thick rumble of engines starting up around me. Roaring so loud now and someone fires a gun. My eye candy covers his ears and spins around. He's still shouting at the bookie, this time to no avail.

I grip my key, tied to the band around my wrist. Rub the notches for good luck and turn my eyes on the red Nissan Silva resting under a half burned tree. She may not be much to look at, but when I go up against Mr. Familiar here and his souped up Acura, she'll help me win my eleventh street race. He doesn't know it yet, but as I stand here, still sporting my white leotard from practice, I'm going to take him for all he's worth.

He taps my shoulder and I glance up at him. He's not taller than me, just standing on the hill side. The outskirts where these races are held, they are bumpy, rough, and wooded terrain. He cups his mouth and leans in. Asks me my name. His voice like thunder in this darkness. Pot smoke dances around us.

"Jemma!" I shout back at him, holding one ear. He doesn't hear me. "Jemma!" I repeat. "It's Jemma!"

"Justine?" He shouts back, sort of laughing. He can't hear me, I can barely hear him. "I'm Yvgenny!"

Shaking my head, I shrug and he grins, drops the conversation. We stand amongst the tiny crowd of watchers, baby mamas, singled out thugs, biochemistry majors, you name it they race. No one in my family knows I'm doing this. My father would kill over. But here I am, ballet shoes and all. The third lap rounds up and Mr. Familiar taps my shoulder before we part ways for our respected rides. He wishes me good luck. He'll be the one who needs it.

Before I step into my car, I turn slightly and look back at him. Curious. He's standing stock still, feet from his car, answering his cellphone. I'm about to climb in when I see him turn back and hand a wad of cash to the bookie, who then waves me over as Mr. Familiar runs to his car and speeds off.

I feel jipped. He's forfeited, I've earned his share of the bets. But my bones tingle, my chest flutters. I can feel it in my fingertips, my need and want for this particular race. And I don't know why.

I'm angry.


	2. Chapter One

Part ONE

Chapter One

_"Pop! Calm down!"_

_At this point, all of our unpacked boxes are in disarray amidst the livingroom floor. My old man is pulling his hair, spitting out a slew of words that would offend the devil himself._

_"Pop! We'll find him!"_

_"He's off his medicine, Ven! Who the hell knows where he went!"_

_"How long?"_

_"Two weeks."_

_"He's been unmedicated for two weeks?"_

The car keys turn over in my hand and my memories flood me as I sit in my father's recliner playing with them, overlooking the figure curled up under sheets on the sofa. He's been like this for a few hours. In my lap, my sister, five years old now, grips my t-shirt between her small fingers and snores quietly. I exhale slow, rest my chin upon her messy red curls, stare at the lump. Behind us, in the kitchen, I can hear my father pulling something from the refrigerator.

_"I didn't know."_

_"What's wrong with you? How do you not know! He's your responsibility!"_

_"I can't watch him twenty-four seven! I had to handle the move!"_

_He grabs an empty glass. Pulls a bottle of whisky from one loaded cabinet. Pouring himself a helping, my father takes a swill._

_"Yeah that's great. Get hammered!"_

Miranda stirs at the sounds of my father clinging around. Groggily, she opens her doe brown eyes and is quick to look over her shoulder. She is still holding onto my shirt as she stares at Ian. When she turns her attention back to me, she is crying. She's afraid. Like I used to be. Like I still am sometimes.

_Glaring at me, he chugs the entire glass. I know it burns because his left eyes waters. He slams it down._

_"It's your fault that he's like this!"_

_"Watch your god damned mouth!"_

_"If you hadn't put him in that nut house!"_

_"He almost died, Yvgenny!"_

_"Because you don't keep up with his Lithium!"_

_"No! Because he's sick! Son, he's sick, and we can't take care of him alone."_

Kissing her forehead, I smooth back her hair and whisper to her that everything is fine. My father quiets. The kitchen light flips off. The back stairs creek. Upstairs, his bedroom door slams. Miranda shakes her head, her eyes tearing up again, and soaks the front of my shirt. She has never been able to deal with the downs. She doesn't understand just like I used to not understand. And she can't handle my father's frustration. He's prone to close in on himself and shut us out when Ian spirals down. Every time. Often times, he worries me more than Ian. My father is a strong man who takes on more than his weight in troubles, more than not inviting the trouble with welcoming arms before trying to nurse the problem into something beautiful, something at least normal. I'll never understand him, but I admire his tenacity.

_"Yes we can! You just need to find him. We need to find him! We can call aunt Fiona! Uncle Lip!"_

_"Fiona can't fly out here right now and I'm not involving your uncle. It's just us three. And I'm too busy. I can't. . .I. . ."_

_"You mean you won't! You're going to commit him again, aren't you?"_

_"I have to get him well. Bare with me. Okay? Just try and understand. I know it's hard and you're just a kid, but please, try."_

Once Miranda is finally asleep, I hug her against me and carry her up stairs. Her face, squished against my collar bones until I lay her down and tuck her in. I flip on her night light before shutting her door behind me and leaning on the heavy oak. Staring up at the ceiling, I swallow the ball in my throat and close my eyes; breathe in, breathe out. After I get myself under control, I push off of Miranda's door and tiptoe over to the master bedroom. Placing my ear on the door, I wait to see if maybe my father went to sleep. But I can hear him moving around. Softly, I knock on his door. He opens it within seconds, stares back at me, remorseful.

People tell me I am the spitting image of my father, but with lighter hair and my mother's Russian nose. I tower over him, but just barely.

"Can we talk?" I ask him.

He nods as he turns around, moves to sit on the edge of his bed. I sit beside of him. We don't look at one another or speak. Just watch the fish tank beneath the far window. Without warning, he puts his hand the nape of my neck and side hugs me. I study him but he isn't looking at me. His eyes are lost, he's somewhere else.

"What happened?" I ask him. I feel like I'm intruding. My father is very private man, especially when it comes to him and Ian.

His silence chills my chest. Finally he lets go of me and rubs his face. "I don't know," he starts. His voice is tired. His eyes are bruising from lack of rest, from too much worry. "I was looking at his pills," he says, motioning at the mess he's made of their bathroom. "I think they switched him to something new. He didn't tell me. But. . ." he trails off, hands praying over his mouth and nose. "But he's been acting fine until I got home tonight. He was. . .I don't know."

"He told me he doesn't like being on an SSRI," I tell my father. Chewing my lip, I confess what I should have sooner. But I'd hoped it meant nothing. "So, maybe he stopped taking his Symbyax."

My father looks at me, his eyes piercing through me. "Jesus," he snaps, shakes his head. "He doesn't like taking anything. Never fucking has," he complains, rubbing his mouth and I can see his efforts to calm himself. "I forced a benzo down him before you got home," he tells me. "Before he scared Miranda any worse." Deep regret sets in on his face. He's thirty-seven next month and people mistake him for being my older brother. "Is she okay?" he asks me. I can tell he wishes he had handled the situation better.

"Yeah," I sigh. "She's worried you're going to make him leave," I say.

He snorts. Miranda is biologically Ian's niece; his younger sister's daughter. Debbie passed away after a car accident and left her infant in my dads' care. My aunt Mandy says Miranda inherited her mother's dramatic flare. Probably my father is thinking the same.

"Where were you?" he asks me, changing the subject and I'm grateful. I just want this night to die out, for tomorrow to be a little easier.

Scratching my cheek, I bring my legs up and cross them. I turn to face him and I'm suddenly reminded of being younger. All the times I came to my father, sitting just like this, talking for hours into the night. Usually Ian was close by, chiming in. I'm saddened and nostalgically peaceful all at once. I ponder what I should tell him. We've never kept secrets. "I bought a car," I start.

He looks at me strangely. "Bought?" he asks me, an accusing tone peeking in. He knows I quit my job three months before we moved back to Chicago. I haven't even looked for work here. They stopped my allowance years ago.

"Borrowed long term," I say and can't look him in the eye.

My father, his history with crime is not a secret in this household. He would be a hypocrite to judge, so he drops it, mostly. "You scratch the vin?" he asks, brow up and face disapproving.

Nodding, I tell him of the outskirts, the race I stumbled into.

He smiles for the first time all week. "Leave it to you," he goes. "You win any money?"

I rub the back of my neck and shrug. "Got interrupted," I say jokingly but instantly want to eat my words.

He licks his lips and looks away.

The room grows quiet. Each silent moment putting more distance between us. I feel as though the bed is literally stretching, pulling us in opposite directions. Inhaling deeply, I blow at my bangs. Pick at the scab on my knee. Unsure, wishing I could take this back to hugs and understanding glances, any place but where I've offended one of the only people I give a damn about. "There was ballerina there," I say, and by now the inside of my lip is raw.

Finally he looks back at me, yawns, and studies my expression. "She plie and dance the side-lines?" he snarks. "Wear a little tutu?"

Chuckling, I say, "I kind of wish. I was supposed to go against her."

"Hilarious," he says, rolls his eyes, and gently shoves my forehead. It's quiet again for a moment. He yawns again and stand up, arches his back and the crack is loud enough to make me wince. "Can you do me a favor?" he asks, looking down at me. I nod, he says, "You remember where your aunt lives? She doesn't know we're back yet. I need her to come see Ian. I'd go myself," he continues, "but if I don't make that interview, we're fucked."

I tell him I'll go. "But can't we just call her?" I ask.

Shaking his head he says, "Just go over. See your cousins and shit. Surprise her. Take Miranda."


End file.
